His bag is stuffed with dirty laundry — uniforms, civilian clothes, socks, and underwear. He apologizes that it’s more than usual (he’s been getting off every other Shabbos for the last few weeks and has been bringing me his laundry). He usually manages to do a load on his base, but this time he hadn’t.

His brother came home from yeshivah last night with a suitcase packed to the brim with dirty laundry — seemingly every single item he ever brought to yeshivah — and it’s been even longer since he’s been home. The other members of my family haven’t stopped wearing clothing and also need clean laundry. There aren’t enough hours in which to finish doing this amount of laundry.

But now is Erev Shabbos. A very short Erev Shabbos, I might add, and if I don’t get back into the kitchen, we’re going to be eating cornflakes at our seudos. The duffle bag is banished to the laundry room.

My son — showered and dressed in civilian clothes — heads out the door to meet up with friends he doesn’t get to see while he’s on base. He grabs the M-16 and reloads the clip.

“You’re taking that with you?” I ask.

“You don’t want me to leave it here, do you?”

It hadn’t really occurred to me that that was the alternative to him taking it with him.

“This way I have it with me if anything happens,” he reassures me. A scary thought, but not an inaccurate one.

I think of the Thursday night a couple of months ago when two girls showed up at my door bearing a cake sent by the local community center to families of soldiers. Part of me wanted to protest, tell them that my son wasn’t in a combat unit, and he wasn’t anywhere near Gaza. I didn’t deserve their cake. It should have gone to mothers who needed to worry so much more than I do.

I felt like a fraud. I never wanted a son in the army. I didn’t raise my kids dreading and dreaming of the day they would enlist.

But my son is a soldier. He has a rifle slung over his shoulder “just in case.” Even if I don’t want to admit it to myself, just wearing a uniform makes him a target.

These girls weren’t appropriate receptacles for my inner angst. I just wanted to thank them and close the door. But to my shock, I was too choked up to speak. Bawling in front of them wasn’t an option either, so I nodded and smiled warmly, and they saw my eyes glistening and thought they understood.

Ready or not, by Motzaei Shabbos I have to face the laundry.

I never imagined that one day I’d be washing IDF uniforms, but here I am, straightening the collar and cuffs, giving them to my daughter to iron so my son looks his best. I stack neat piles of fresh-smelling clothing into his duffle and hope he feels the love I’m tucking into the folds.

I attack my other son’s button-down white shirts with the stain spray, inspect them when they come out of the wash, and wonder if laundry can be a love language. I marvel at the contrast in wardrobes: one son, plain white shirts and dark pants and the loudest socks I can get my hands on; the other wears loud clothing, but his socks are all demure, solid colors.

The dirty piles slowly morph into neatly folded stacks, but, spoiler alert, I won’t have time to finish everything. Soldier son can’t just pick up and leave his base whenever he wants, so I prioritize his laundry. Which makes me feel bad. My yeshivah bochur is every bit the soldier his brother is, and I don’t want him to feel one iota less important, but he can come home and get more laundry before his brother can.

Sigh. I’m trying. I really am.

I remember the conversation I had with my married daughter on the day of the recent Jerusalem terror attack. She’s close friends with a girl who was injured. I didn’t know what to say, so I just listened. The conversation moved to other topics, and I had things to do so I tried excusing myself, but she kept talking. I schmoozed a little while longer, then excused myself again. But she kept chatting.

She’s a mature adult; she’s a mother herself. She doesn’t keep me on the phone when I need to go. But her friend was shot. Why didn’t I get that she just wanted to hear my voice? I’ve got shelves of parenting books. And I’ve read every single one of them. Yet not one single book has a chapter titled: When Your Kid’s Friend Is Shot by a Terrorist.

I’m the mom. When did I become so inadequate? When did I stop having all the answers? Any answers? I can’t even finish the laundry.

I say Tehillim and make challah and try to keep the peace and not speak lashon hara. It’s a drop in the ocean of what Am Yisrael is doing. We’re all trying so hard. And it matters, of course it all matters, I would never ever say it didn’t matter.

But still, the news keeps coming of the loss of another soldier. We hear his name, his age, his battalion. We see his face. What the news can’t show you are the ripples of pain radiating from the spot where he fell, the family, the friends, and coworkers who still need him.

The hostages still in captivity, the victims of the massacre, and the families torn apart… so much pain. It’s too much to understand, to take in, to feel….

I realize “inadequate” isn’t the right word. I feel human, mortal — unable to understand. And that awareness is comforting. I’m not supposed to have the answers, and I can lean on Someone Who does. So I say another perek, add my tears to His cup, and start another load of laundry.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 876)